Playin' Hero
by Child of Loki
Summary: Coming to the rescue isn't always easy, something the NOLA agents have learned quite well. A series of action-based one-shots. (LaSalle vs. The Bull; Pride vs. The Cat Burglar; Brody vs. The Firebug)
1. LaSalle vs The Bull

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**NCIS: New Orleans **_**or its characters…**

**Author's Note: Inspired by all of Marjorie K Place's character abuse… ;-) It's been awhile since I've written some straight whumpage, and MJK can't be expected to write all of the Abuse!LaSalle fics out there… So a one-shot whumping on Chris LaSalle a little bit… (with badassery of course).**

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"Why didn't you wait for backup?"

Pride's tone was markedly fatherly, his hand squeezing Chris' shoulder in a gentling gesture that was firm enough to belie the older agent's concern. Generally, the man kept things a little more 'mentorly' with his junior agent, but LaSalle supposed the extra sentiment wasn't completely unwelcome. And although they neither of them openly admitted it, their friendship had definitely strayed more into the father-son territory than strictly that of fellow agents. Which was nice sometimes, like when a man found himself hurting something fierce and it was all he could do not to curl up in a ball and cry for his mama.

Truth be told, Chris had come to prefer Agent Brody's attention after he got rather banged up on a raid or the like because _-no offense, King_\- her pretty face, even contorted with concern was a nice distraction from the aches and pains. But this time, it was Pride attempting to converse with him and pull his attention away from the needle and thread boring through his flesh and pulling the severed edges of tissue together. Using every remaining ounce of his energy, Chris had poured on his charm, and somehow convinced the EMTs just to patch him up on site. No need to go to the hospital.

He wasn't sure he could handle a trip to the hospital at the moment.

Only sick people went to the hospital. Therefore, if he didn't go to the hospital, he wasn't sick... or horribly injured, as it were.

Okay, okay. Specious logic, he knew. But he clung to it nonetheless, because the thought of those institutionally beige and grey corridors, the rooms reeking of strong antiseptic, all those people suffering... He rather crawl into bed and sleep off the internal bruising.

Pride was still staring at him. It was almost, but not quite a glare. And what the hell was that about?

Oh, right, because he hadn't responded to the beginning of the scolding he likely rightly deserved.

"There wa'n't time, King," he said, wincing as the medic tugged at the thick thread, pulling the sutures tight and closing the deep gash in the meat of his bicep. Damn that hurt, even with the local anesthetic they'd administered. He'd probably be wishin' he'd sought professional help as he struggled to survive the next couple days only with his choice of ibuprofen or Tylenol... and not even the kind with codine in it. If the already throbbing aches in various parts of his body were any indication, he'd likely not even be able to move the next morning.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, King's tone grew angry.

"He coulda killed you, Christopher. What were you thinkin'?" he asked, his voice becoming a fraction louder and sharper.

Chris knew it was only because the older man was upset that his agent gotten banged up, could've been seriously injured, and yes, died. But even so, he hadn't had a damned choice. He'd had to move on the man.

Best start at the beginning he supposed. Maybe it would count as his debrief and he could go home straight from the scene to sleep until tomorrow.

"Well, I was holed up alongside that building across the street waitin' for ya..."

...

The target didn't seem to notice him. But the man was likely not noticing much in that state. Seaman Gerald 'Bull' Pike was so strung out on meth that he'd been in a drug-induced psychotic break for the past two days. One of those 'hard luck' cases that some old school judge figured the Navy could straighten out better than the prison system. Not that Chris didn't believe such an approach could be extremely successful, maybe in some petty crimes cases like theft and the like. But for a man like Bull, with a history of drug abuse -and not the light stuff- Chris sort of wanted to punch that judge in the face who'd given the man the option of being trained in lethal skills.

Pride and Brody were tracking down the drug trafficking ring they'd exposed whilst investigating Pike's AWOL rampage. Someone had been smuggling drugs, including cocaine, heroine and meth onto the _USS Sheridan_, where Pike had resumed using, apparently decided to party harder while in port at New Orleans, and OD-ed himself into a psychotic break. And the man was violent, had already killed three people in the past two days, and showed no sign of stopping. Chris had been just a couple miles away, interviewing an old high school buddy of Pike's, but the man hadn't had any contact with Bull for years, and seemed legit. While headed back to the office, Chris had picked up the call on his scanner for a suspect meeting Pike's description fleeing down a street just a couple blocks away after robbing a convenience store.

Honestly, Chris had been surprised to hear he had the capacity to do any such thing as rob someone, especially when he made a pass down the street and saw the man barreling haphazardly through people's back yards, like a bear just woken up for the spring with his brain still half in hibernation.

Pike was dangerous. He was a huge man with an insane violent streak, and Pride had made it abundantly clear that they were not to try to take him on their own, because if they survived, the senior agent would kick their asses himself.

Perhaps it made him a bad person, even sadistic, but truth-be-told, if the large, crazed sailor and ex-con had been just ambling down the middle of that back alley, Chris probably would've simply hit him with the SUV... just a little tap to make sure he stayed down and was amenable to being cuffed and hauled off.

Alas, a federal agent couldn't very well go smashing government property into civilian property, destroying some nice folk's back yard landscaping.

He'd pulled off into an empty driveway, and edged up to the side of the building, keeping an eye on the big seaman as he ambled determinedly through the fenced-in yards, like Frankenstein's monster, destructive and single-minded, sort of clumsy and clueless. Chris had called Pride, and the senior agent had ordered him to stay put, which he was happy to do, considering the gigantic, brutish appearance of 'Bull' Pike. Damn, the file said he was 6'7" and 300 pounds, but reading that and seeing it was an entirely different thing.

It had been maybe a minute, and the oblivious monster continued to make his way through the backyards, trying to climb over the shorter fences, simply smashing through the taller ones. Pride and Brody were still ten minutes out. And Pike was almost out of his sightline. He'd have to reposition.

Even though it was doubtful that Pike would notice him, Chris was still careful as he moved several houses down to take up a new position to observe the Bull, feeling more like an animal control officer tracking an escaped rhino from the zoo.

And then he saw them.

Two yards down from the one in which the drugged-out psychotic ex-con sailor was fighting with a chain-linked fence, two small children were playing in a little sandbox. They couldn't be more than five years old, either of them.

"Dammit," Chris swore under his breath. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk that the brute who was more animal than man at the moment wouldn't hurt those little kids, especially if their presence startled the cracked-out seaman.

Pike was now in the yard just beside the one where the kids played, happily oblivious to the monster that was about to crash into their innocent lives.

Chris swore again, just for good measure, and then ran across the street. Thankfully, he saw the mother at the sliding glass door and she spotted him.

"Federal Agent! Get the kids inside, now!"

Also lucky, the woman didn't freeze, but ran for her kids, picking up the smaller one and dragging the other one by the arm as they hurried into the house.

Not lucky, all of the shouting hadn't gone unnoticed by Pike, and when, assured that the kids were out of the way, Chris swung around to face the man, he found him rushing towards him, like the bull of his namesake. He supposed it was quite an apt nickname, like a confused bull, he had ambled about, seemingly clumsy and bumbling, but once he had Chris in his field of vision, he had focused entirely upon him. And it was too late for the agent to respond.

He'd managed only to get his gun halfway in the man's direction before the Bull crashed through the low fence and hit him dead center, tackling him right off from the sidewalk and onto the asphalt, his gun flying from his grip to clatter as it skidded across the road.

Chris' vision was temporarily a blur of blackness and bright light and his diaphragm seized from the impact leaving him gasping and breathless as he felt the heavy weight of the man shift on top of him, and threw up his arms to protect his face in an instinctive reaction just in time to block the blows that began to rain down upon him. 'Meat hooks' were right. His fists were like clubs. Chris had been hit with a bat a couple of times, and man, that was nothing compared to the powerful blows of the psychotic sailor's fists as they landed on his forearms, the pain so acute the agent guessed he'd probably have hairline fractures in the bones.

He couldn't just lie there and take it. Eventually, his arms would give out and then those powerful blows would be landing on his face and head and he wouldn't last long then, before losing consciousness and then dying. So Chris wriggled about, pulling his knee up towards his chest, working it between himself and the impossible mass of human flesh above him until finally he had the leverage he needed and heaved in one sharp movement, straining all the muscles in his body to throw the giant man off from him.

He heard Pike hit the ground beside him with a thump and a groan.

No time to lose.

Chris scrambled to his feet, a little unsteady, silently demanded that the world stop spinning, and did a quick evaluation of his surroundings. His gun was a good ten yards away now, but just beside him were the broken remnants of the picket fence.

Broken bit of wood it was, then, preferably with a nail. He reached for one.

It had only taken him a second, a fraction of a second even, to check out his surroundings and decide upon a course of action, but damn if that monster wasn't quicker than he'd given any sign of earlier. Chris barely had his hand on the end of a fence post when he felt that incredible, dense mass impact him again. This time, Pike's tackle carried him several feet into the yard landing them both in a twisted mass of metal that just a split-second earlier was patio furniture. Chris hit it first, serving as sort of a shield for the crazed Bull, crying out with pain as he felt the metal cut through his arm and side.

Instead of sitting on him and trying to punch him into the ground like last time, the big man got to his feet and then lumbered forward, reaching for his smaller opponent, likely wanting to pick Chris up and throw him against the side of the house, or through a glass window. That was a journey that the agent didn't really want to make, so he hastily reached out and felt around until his fingers wrapped around the smooth end of a metal cylinder, a pipe knocked loose from whatever lawn furniture the brawling pair had just destroyed.

He meant to swing it at the man's head as he rushed in to grab him, but apparently that last crash to the ground had dazed Pike, as well, for he was just a fraction slower than Chris had anticipated, and the agent managed to get the piece of metal up in time for the Bull to impale himself on the narrow metal pole, with a disturbing spurt of blood.

And Chris supposed it was a stereotype for a reason, but it still seemed extremely surreal as he watched Pike look down at the object sticking out of his chest, blood beginning to pour from his agape mouth. The man's expression was one of pure shock, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Chris' before he fell forward, like an ancient oak tree being downed, and the agent delirious and giddy and in shock slightly himself, whispered "Timber" as he scrambled out of the way of the large dead mass as it came crashing down to the ground.

Chris himself, collapsed to a grassier part of the lawn and lay there bleeding and aching and trying to catch his breath until his fellow agents arrived on the scene, and called for an ambulance and the coroner.

...

Pride nodded as Chris finished his tale, and the medic finished stitching up the gash in his side.

"Can't say I woulda done any different," the older agent said, seemingly pacified, patting him on the shoulder. "You done good.

But now you _are_ goin' to the hospital."

"But, King-" Chris knew he sounded like a pouting child, but to hell with that! He was _not_ going to the hospital. He hated the hospital. And didn't he deserve a break after what he'd done?

"After what you told me, you might have injuries worse than those scrapes and bruises," Pride said in the tone that brooked no argument. "And you're goin' to get checked out."

"Last time I save the day," Chris muttered under his breath. Unfortunately, Pride heard him, but rather than scowl, he smiled.

"You wanted to play Hero, Christopher. This is the price."

END

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**A/N: I definitely need to practice my action-writing again… So possibly more stories like this to come (Or maybe I'll actually get my butt around to finishing up **_**Ballast**_**)**

**A/N2: I just made up a ship name, but apparently the **_**USS Sheridan **_**was an actual vessel… it's rather difficult to find a legit sounding fake one, I guess…**


	2. Pride vs The Cat Burglar

**Author's Note: Decided to continue with this theme in order to work on my 'action-writing' skills, which let's face it, need some honing. So this is going to be a series of one-shots, I think.**

**This one is centered on Prid****e, since I'm trying to like him more. As it is, despite liking Scott Bakula a lot (fan of him in Quantum Leap and Enterprise) Dwayne Pride sort of bores me… I don't **_**dislike **_**him. But I don't particularly **_**like**_** him, either. I'm thinking that maybe this is just because I've never tried to get into his head (nothing about him has drawn me in, I guess), and am going to give it a go…**

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Dwayne Pride, federal agent (some would say 'veteran' agent, or 'well-seasoned' -he liked that, 'well-seasoned', it conjured images of a perfectly prepared culinary delight, rather than an old worn down man, which he thought he perhaps was, as he) chased the young woman up the metal stairs, her light footsteps creating a musical melody, his clunky old feet rattling the structure in a cacophony.

And then they hit the deck and she really got a lead on him, the distance between her bare feet and his boots growing wider by the second. The girl was probably less than half his age. Hell, Christopher was just barely over half his age, and this spry young woman was likely only a few years older than Laurel, if that. Far too young to be a cat burglar, let alone a murderer. But she was both.

And she was escaping.

And where the hell were his junior agents? He'd sent them to the port side boarders' rooms while he checked the passengers that had booked rooms on the starboard side of the cargo vessel. There weren't that many, just an attempt by an already wealthy-beyond-reason corporation to make a few more bucks by offering up the space left by employees they'd cut off the manifest in the interest of 'cost-effectiveness'. They should've been through with the five mystery persons of interest. He doubted any of them met Miss Ross's description at all. What 20-year old liked to travel via sketchy cargo ship? Didn't they like to go on cruises to the Caribbean or Tijuana? Thankfully, Laurel was a little more sophisticated and intelligent, had been talking about back-packing across Europe, the thought of which terrified her father as much as if she was making plans to go to Cancun for Spring Break, or booking passage on a rusty, decades-old cargo ship headed for Peru with a crew that looked more like pirates than merchant seamen.

Thankfully, the ship was a hub of activity, the scruffy-looking crew unloading the last of the hold before they began loading for their return trip. His suspect was significantly slowed by the stacks of crates, busy crew and small loaders zipping about the deck. Pride pushed himself, knowing he wouldn't have made it this far if he didn't still run a couple miles every day. Slowing down is what made a person stop. And once you stopped doing the things you used to, at his age, it was near impossible to start once more. He didn't usually feel old, not even when chasing suspects, engaging in gun battles and fist fights. But his suspects generally weren't little girls that reminded him very much of his own little girl... not so little anymore.

The burglar-turned-murderer made a mistake. She should've turned left as she made her way through that maze of crates, reached the port edge of the ship where it would be a clear run to the gangplank. But she'd turned left and found herself stopped at the precipice of the gaping cargo hold. She turned around, a gust of coastal wind molding the oversized flannel shirt about her slender body, whipping her mousy-colored hair about her face...

God, did she look young, her cheeks full and round, her green eyes as big as a frightened doe's. Her mouth was set in a firm, determined line, even as he trained Charmaine, his Colt Python, on her, center mass. He didn't want to shoot her. God, he didn't want to kill a girl whose life had just barely begun.

Dwayne had to remind himself that she was a killer. Not just a young woman caught up in a bad life, a thief who could still be set on a straight path, who still might have a good heart inside of her. He concentrated on the image of the scene she had left behind for them to find., the Admiral's wife lying in a pool of her own blood, having surprised the young thief mid-robbery, recalled how the evidence had revealed the grim sequence of events, that this girl had shot Michelle Johnston, puncturing the older woman's lung, leaving her to slowly drown in her own blood as she proceeded to finish opening the safe and clearing out its contents before fleeing, consigning her victim to die slowly, agonizingly, alone in the dark while her husband was serving a tour in the Pacific.

"It's over, Nadine," Pride shouted over the din of the machinery, men and the roar of the wind as it continued to pick up in intensity. "We know you're responsible, for the string of robberies in Uptown, and for the murder of Michelle Johnston. Just turn yourself in."

The girl glanced behind her, looked back to Pride with a grin that could only be called 'vulpine' curving her lips. She took a step back that made his heart scramble up into his throat. Granted, the girl's deliberate step was reminiscent of that of an Olympic gymnast on a balance beam, poised, perfectly placed, and eminently confident. But still...

"Don't do it," Pride said. "We can work this out. There ain't any reason to do somethin' rash. Ya've got your whole life-"

The girl raised her arms above her head, her knees bending slightly, and then her entire body launching up about a foot as she arced backwards, again reminding him of an Olympic athlete, only this time one doing a backwards dive off the high platform... Only it was no deep pool of water she'd be landing in.

He sprinted to the edge of the hold, simultaneously apprehensive and eager to look down, to know what had happened to the graceful girl. Instead of finding a gruesome sight of a broken body in a pool of blood and innards that exploded outwards by the force of the impact, Dwayne found himself stumbling back a couple of feet, his mind blanking with shock as the large net filled with cargo was lifted out of the hold, an incongruous barnacle in black leggings and a red flannel shirt clinging to the side. As the net was lifted, the full, round face grinned at him with youthful exuberance, green eyes sparkling, passing by him just three feet out of reach. He was in such shock, he hadn't even lifted his gun to threaten the suspect, until a moment later, the bundle rotated under its imbalanced weight, removing the insane cat burglar from his sight.

Nadine Ross was going to escape.

A girl, maybe a year older than his college-age daughter, had outsmarted him, well, at least physically out-classed him, and was going to escape.

A cold-blooded killer, albeit one with dimples, was about to get away with murder.

Not on Senior NCIS Agent Dwayne Cassius 'King' Pride's watch. No siree.

He tucked Charmaine into his belt at the small of his back, took several steps backward and then got enough speed to launch himself off the edge of the hold and into the bundle of cargo with no chance of missing it, grabbing hold of the rough rope of the net with his hands, and scrambling to tuck the toes of his boots into the large gaps.

He allowed himself several purposefully slow, deep breaths to calm his heart. It'd been awhile since he'd pulled a stunt like this. And then he heard a familiar voice call his name.

"Pride?!"

He forced his eyes open, craning his neck to look down onto the deck of the ship, which they were now about ten feet above, the hold a dark chasm of terrifying depth directly below. Standing on the edge looking up at him with eyes gone ridiculously wide, were his junior agents. They, both of them, had very big, expressive eyes as it was, and in their current state of surprise, they resembled small children seeing a Ferris Wheel for the first time, terrified but also a little bit impressed.

"What in the blue blazes are ya doin'? LaSalle shouted, still staring at him without blinking.

Slightly disoriented -he'd sent the bundle of cargo spinning faster with his momentum- he looked hastily about, until he saw Nadine Ross smiling her vulpine grin at him, her cheeks dimpling and her green eyes lively and bright. And then she disappeared, and he could feel the cargo boxes and barrels shift and shake inside their bundle. She was climbing up towards the crane's cable.

"What does it look like, I'm doin? I'm catchin', the suspect," he shouted down. Now the man and woman really did look like children, as they got smaller and smaller, the net being raised higher and higher. He watched Brody and LaSalle exchange a look before she ran off, shouting at the nearest deckhand and then pointing frantically up at Pride.

Well, he'd come this far, he might as well finish the job.

Pride let go of the thick rope net with one hand, flexing his fingers, feeling the knuckles lock up painfully from the force with which he'd been gripping the only thing keeping him from being gumbo in the bowels of an old rust bucket. And then he reached up as high as he could, got a good grip, and pulled, drawing up his feet into new holds, and continuing to climb. Nothing to it, really. He'd done this back in gym class in elementary school, climbing a cargo net. And that was what, only about fifty years ago... Well, he remembered it like it was yesterday.

Almost there. He crested the swell of the net, to see that the young, lithe cat burglar had already reached the cable. He amended his original assessment of Nadine Ross as an Olympic athlete. She was all lean muscle, but also graceful, and the way she easily ascended the thick rope of metal was more like something out of Cirque du Soleil. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his shoulders and the burning in his biceps and calves, Dwayne pushed himself to climb the remaining few feet. He was going to have to lie on the heating pad tonight, after he had his palms treated for rope burn of course.

Okay. Now what?

He was standing precariously perched near the apex of the cargo net, hugging himself fiercely, trapping the cable between his arms and his chest. All the while his murder suspect was shimmying away, just out of his grasp.

No. No way. Not on his watch. He had a reputation to preserve. And if the criminal element in his city thought he was gettin' soft... Not to sound too conceited, but that would be bad news for everyone. He'd spent long hard years, lots of 'em, to establish a reputation of honor and well, stubbornness that held sway with good people and bad guys alike.

So Dwayne released his embrace on the cable, opting instead to hold himself steady with one hand, and use his other to reach up, straining all of his muscles and tendons, a couple popping disturbingly audibly, stretching as far as he could manage to… almost, just a little further, just a small springy jump and-

He wrapped his fingers about a slender, bony ankle, and tightened his grip, felt a tug as Nadine tried to raise the foot, a yelp as she realized what was snagging her. And then she began to thrash the appendage, causing the cargo net, its contents, and its stowaways to jerk and shake, and spin round and round and round and-

Dwayne closed his eyes tight, latched onto the young woman's ankle even tighter. He'd be damned if he was going to let a murderer go free just because of a little personal discomf- _oh boy_!

Nadine Ross, athletic circus acrobat cat burglar, fell.

Apparently, too intent on casting off the agent who had gotten hold of her like an old dog sinking his teeth into a bone, she'd lost her grip on the cable.

Agent Pride would not have let her fallen to her death. He would've caught her, held onto her despite his arm muscles screaming in pain. At least, a younger Agent Pride would've prevented his suspect from falling.

Dwayne, however, on days like these, had to admit he was in his declining years. But admitting to it was NOT _submitting_ to it. And he adamantly refused to just roll over and die, to retire before he was ready, to let homicide suspects escape.

And so he hadn't let go of the young woman's ankle when she fell. But neither had he caught her, saved her from falling.

No, he'd inadvertently chosen the third option.

Agent Dwayne Pride fell along with Nadine Ross, from the net full of cargo, dangling from a crane, which had swung them out over... _the water_.

Dwayne breathed a sigh of relief even as he plunged the fifty feet down, knowing that hitting the surface of water could be just as devastating as concrete, and finally choosing to release Nadine Ross' ankle in an attempt to get his feet underneath him, pull his arms in against his sides, take a deep breath and-

He pierced the dark surface like a an Olympic athlete. Okay, it was as close as he'd ever get to performing an Olympic high dive. The harbor water was almost the consistency of cowboy coffee, murky with stirred up silt and other debris he rather not consider. His heart thudded in his ears, which ached in a way that made him wonder if the sudden pressure of abruptly being plunged fairly deep under water hadn't burst his eardrums. But everything else felt... pretty okay, even as he once more pushed already taxed muscles, kicking his legs and pulling with his arms to propel himself towards the surface. He broke it, the sunlight seeming far brighter than it had moments before, making him blink even as he gasped and ran a hand over his face, swiping the water from his eyes, nose and mouth.

He tread water, paddling himself about in a full circle, searching for a round face with dimples, green eyes, or that nondescript, mousy brown hair. A red flannel shirt? Pale skin?

Nothing. Shit.

Instead of waning off, his adrenaline increased, and he wondered how much any person's heart could take, let alone a man entering his seventh decade. He let himself sink under the water, searching the depths for any sign of the young woman he hadn't found on its surface. But it was just so murky... he couldn't see a foot past his face in the clouds of silt.

He popped up, heard Christopher LaSalle's frantic tone.

"King!"

Looking up, he spotted the agent leaning over the railing on the side of the cargo vessel. Mostly unloaded, the ship was riding high, about twenty feet up, but his young friend looked determined to dive off. He knew Chris was a strong swimmer, but he'd rather not the man risk it, with a wall of steel to bounce himself off from. Thankfully, the more level-headed recent addition to their little family was holding him back. Literally. Agent Brody had an arm across Christopher's chest, her other hand gripping his shoulder, her head turned towards him. She appeared to be speaking calmly into his ear. He didn't appear to be responding, jerking in her grasp and shouting for his boss again.

"I'm fine." Dwayne's attempt to reassure his junior agents failed in a pathetic croak. He took a moment to take a deep breath, completely filling his lungs before he tried again. This time waving his arms for extra measure.

"Here! I'm fine," he shouted, flailing, until his team spotted him, their shoulders visibly sagging in relief. "Do you see Nadine Ross?"

The two agents broke apart, began moving in opposite directions along the starboard side of the deck, searching the water.

"There!" Brody shouted and pointed.

Following her outstretched arm, Dwayne turned himself about, growing weary of treading water, but anxious to find the young woman, hopefully not drowned, so he could get out of the bay, the cool temperature of which had begun to annoy him, as well as the questionable smell.

And sure enough, there she was... swimming for shore. Well, for the nearest dock ladder, anyway.

Suddenly, he regretted wishing her not drowned. How was he supposed to overtake her now? And what? Struggle with her? And end up drowning them both? He just didn't have the energy.

"Cut her off!" He barked back over his shoulder at his agents, before sighing heartily and throwing himself into a spirited front stroke, working much harder than he'd ever done, combating sore muscles, fatigue and the weight of his soaked clothing and boots, the revolver like a lead weight still tucked into his belt at the small of his back. Poor Charmaine. She would need some serious love after this little adventure.

Thankfully, he apparently was a stronger swimmer than the fit little cat burglar. Besides the boost to his injured ego, it gave him the edge to catch up to her just as she began to climb the metal rungs screwed into the side of a wooden boardwalk. He suffered a brief flash of _deja vu _as he reached up, grabbed that same ankle -it was marked with some livid red that had already begun to purple- and tugged her off the ladder. She fought him off, thrashing about in the water, and Dwayne willingly backed off, let her pull herself up and begin to climb the ladder once more, because he'd bought the time needed for LaSalle and Brody to arrive.

By the time he hauled his bruised, aching, fatigued, sopping wet, sorry old ass out of the water and onto the dock, the pair already had Nadine Ross, currently-looking-like-a-drowned-cat burglar cuffed and mirandized, sat on her ass in a pool of water on the thick, worn boards of the dock.

"King!"

Those little boy eyes of his young friend's lit up, and the man instantly closed in on the weary old agent, pulling him into an embrace. And hell, he could never slight that affectionate 'little boy' manner of his dearest friend- hell, surrogate son. There really was no use in denying how he felt about him. Dwayne wrapped his arms about the younger agent in return, clapping his back a couple times in classic man-hug fashion.

"Christopher."

After they broke apart, Dwayne turned his attention on his other junior agent, throwing his arms wide, threatening to embrace her, too. Her eyes went big (well, even bigger than normal) and she took a step backwards, throwing her own hands up protectively in front of her.

"Oh, no you don't," she said, eyeing the pool of water forming at his feet and Christopher's now soaked shirtfront. "This blouse is silk."

He raised his eyebrows at her, looked to Christopher who was grinning, obviously enjoying himself and the show. Or maybe he was just immensely relieved on his mentor's behalf.

A blush was creeping up Brody's neck, but her expression gave nothing of the embarrassment away. He supposed it was a little mean of them, but they always teased her when she came across as 'prissy'. Agent Brody was nothing of the sort, really. Her tastes just ran slightly different than his and Chris' male-oriented, down-home style.

"Now, our team is _family_…" Dwayne said, taking a step towards the younger woman whose eyes had gone wide, reminding him of the way Laurel would look at him when she was five and he was threatening to chase her down and tickle her. "An' families, embrace one another, especially durin' hard times."

"You obviously don't know my family," Brody said, her expression turning from alarmed to steely. "And if you ruin this blouse, you're buying me a new one, Pride. It was handmade by a seamstress on Royal."

Dwayne paused.

"Fifty?"

Dark brown eyes locked with his.

"Try doubling that."

He let his hands drop. Not worth it. Christopher laughed, and then suddenly sobered. Dwayne thought Brody must have sent him some sort of quelling look, but she was frowning at the younger man in concern.

"That was some stunt ya pulled, King," Christopher said, catching the older agent's eye with one of his intensely serious looks. There was no playfulness left in their dark blue depths now.

"I ain't dead yet, Christopher." He refused to back down. The day his young friend started treating him with kid gloves, or like he had reserved a spot for him in the Old Fed's retirement village, was the day that Christopher would find himself knocked on his ass. And if Dwayne Pride could not longer manage that, then he'd go willingly. But it was not today.

"Ya keep playin' hero like that an' ya jus' might be."

"It's the job, and you know it." He glanced at Brody who gave him a nod, before returning his attention to an obviously emotional Christopher LaSalle, but one who was marshalling his anger and fear, also nodding his head in agreement.

"We all do," Dwayne said, giving the young man's shoulder a squeeze, trying not to think about how reckless he'd been that day, how big of a scolding he'd be giving Christopher if their roles were reversed. Loving your partners, your team, it gave you strength to do the job. But it could also break your heart.

* * *

**A/N: I obviously seem him in the fatherly role with his little NCIS team family. Not sure if I had too much of his thinking about his being 'old', but knowing many people of his years, it tends to be on their minds a lot, about things they used to do so easily which are more difficult now, even when they're in as good as shape as someone like Pride (Scott Bakula) is. I imagine an agent approaching retirement age would be aware of his physical limitations, especially when chasing down a fit young suspect. And if he gets to worry about LaSalle, then LaSalle definitely gets to worry about Pride.**

**A/N2: I also took liberties with shipping vessels and dock procedures/facts.**

**A/N3: I'm aware 'well-seasoned' actually refers to the age of items, such as firewood, or lumber, but being a foodie, Pride would obviously go to the culinary aspect.**


	3. Brody vs The Firebug

**Author's Note: Not sure why this one was so difficult to write… Brody-centric fics seem to come much more easily to me on the whole. Also, still not sure I actually like this installment in the action-oriented series… Not quite action-filled enough, maybe?**

**(Also a bit of Brody saving LaSalle's ass… as requested by MKP.)**

* * *

Smoke inhalation had nothing on this. It burned but was also heavy and thick in her throat, nose and lungs, made her hack and cough, came up as an -ew, disgusting- thick glob of mucus the color of spoiled cream.

A good old house fire would've been far more pleasant than this, Agent Meredith Brody decided, as she pulled the oxygen mask away from her face to engage in a coughing fit generally characteristic of homeless pneumoniacs, which produced another glob that looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy's hideous mutant cousin. Not caring about dignity or hygiene for once, she promptly spat it onto the ground.

"That ain't right."

She looked up to see LaSalle's repulsed expression, wrinkled nose, furrowed brow, grimace and all.

"Wow, are you reall-" A stinging cough interrupted her scolding and she was forced to raise the mask to her face once more. So she just glared at him until his mouth softened in concern and sympathy. He shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The other was holding a bandage to the side of his head.

"Yeah, 'm sorry, Brody," he murmured before he finally stopped fidgeting and made eye contact with her. "Ya really saved my ass back there."

He gave her his (likely-patented) charming smile.

"An' ya say Pride 'n' I are always playin' hero. Bein' all reckless an' whatnot. But, woman, ya sure have us beat."

She narrowed her eyes at him, despite feeling a little pleased with herself at what she'd accomplished, the lives she'd saved, including her fellow agent's.

It certainly hadn't been easy...

* * *

Christopher LaSalle was not a large man. He was fit but not a body builder. And Merri had never expected that he would be so fricken heavy. She needed to revise her observational skills. She'd always put him at about 155 pounds. But damn, dragging his ass was more like hauling a bear carcass out of the woods than a deer. Not that she'd done either. But she did originally hail from hunting territory. Maybe had she tramped out into the woods with the other gun-toting kiddies to bag a prize buck, getting her partner's ass out of harm's way would've been easy for her now, just relying on an old muscle memory.

But it wasn't. Her arms burned in protest, but if she could just get his unconscious form moving again (unfortunately having slowed to round the corner), she could get him out of danger and return to the real job at hand. She hadn't been able to lift him enough to get under him, wrap her arms around his chest and awkwardly walk him out of the place. And she was afraid that heaving on his arm would dislocate his shoulder, so she tugged at his legs instead. If he came out with a couple more bumps to the head and bruises on his back, well, it was better than leaving him there, buried in a half crushed stack of artificial cream-filled sponge pastry the 'bakery' had somehow gotten to come out a vivid Barbie pink. It was a heart attack factory in Merri's opinion. And at the moment, likely a death trap.

The serial arsonist suspect with a vendetta against naval personnel worked at the newly reopened snack cake factory, and a simple questioning had gone a little awry, when the man had taken the crowbar (normally used to open the crates of industrial-sized quantities of baking supplies) and struck LaSalle upside the head, sending the agent crashing into a stack of Pixie Cakes. Merri was briefly torn between chasing their suspect down and making sure LaSalle was still breathing. The sound of metal impacting skull had been sickeningly loud. That brief hesitation had allowed their suspect to flee. She pursued, but the chaos the altercation had created in the manufacturing line had employees scrambling to get out of the way, or _into the way _in an attempt to witness the source of the mayhem.

She'd shouted out her identification, ordered them to evacuate, pulled the nearest fire alarm she could find, but the arsonist had disappeared on her. It was a large building filled with stainless steel equipment and the scent of baking pastry. She had a feeling he wouldn't run. Well, more than he had already done.

Arsonists with his MO... he was still in the building, and he'd go out with a bang. A big one. And she couldn't leave LaSalle defenseless, unable to save himself if she couldn't find the crazy bastard and stop him in time. Trying to rouse the unconscious agent had failed, and so she was left with no option but to literally drag his ass out of there. The factory could go up in flames any minute, depending on the resources the suspect had on hand. There was a crowd gathered outside of the loading docks, many still in aprons and hairnets, gloved and coated in flour, sugar and the like. And she shouted at them to help her incapacitated comrade in her commanding 'federal agent tone', which seemed to do the trick for several rushed forward, picking him up as if he were light as a feather and carrying him off to lie him in the grass and fawn over him.

Damn Southern Boy. Charming even when entirely unconscious.

He'd be fine. He would. Shaking her head, Merri turned and ran back into the factory. Fire trucks and emergency personnel had to be on their way. The fire alarm was blaring in her ears, painfully loud as she passed the fixtures mounted at various intervals in the large building. At least, they seemed new, so hopefully the system was rigged to directly contact the NOFD when set off. Maybe she should just evacuate herself…

Wait.

That might be the smart thing to do...

Except, Rene Grant was not only an arsonist, but one who'd been escalating with every fire he'd set. And given the state of the surrounding neighborhood... Zoning wasn't especially strict in this part of the city, desperate to draw in anything that might bolster its economy. And the factory had been built out of several old brick houses in the middle of what previously had been a residential... still was primarily a residential area. There were houses, homes, apartments, families, people sleeping after working night shifts, home for lunch... if this place went up in a powerful blaze, the entire neighborhood would doubtless follow.

Merri couldn't risk that. If there was a chance she could stop the demented firebug before he set that match...

But where could he be? They probably used gasoline in the machinery they used to haul crates of supplies and products around. But that was behind her. She hadn't seen any sign of the man. And the last she had eyes on him, he'd been running deeper into the factory. God, this place would go up fast. It wasn't like a recently built facility. It was a couple of retrofitted old buildings. The floors were refinished wood, as were the door casings, trim, stairs. Its infrastructure wasn't steel and cement, but wood and nails, with a brick facade.

Focus. Think like an arsonist. He was at work. He didn't have his preferred kit. Well, maybe it was sitting in the trunk of his car. But he wouldn't risk going for it. What did he need?

An accelerant was required for a really good, swift blaze, right?

Janitor's closet maybe? Cleaning supplies and chemicals? But where would they keep that in this crazy cupcake-producing ma-_whoa!_

Her boots slipped on the wide wood planks of the floor and she barely caught herself, crouching down once she'd regained her balance to touch her fingers to the viscous sheen, raising them to her nose and turning her head hastily away at the sharp scent of alcohol-based cleaning fluid.

Okay, so he'd already raided the janitor's closet. Then there wasn't much time. Why wasn't this place already filled with over-baked 'Pixie Cakes' exploding into a mass of bubbling sugary goo, overflowing the large batter vats like a misjudged cake in her own oven (okay, so it was an unfortunately common occurrence when Merri baked)?

The packages of snack cakes would go up quick and burn hot. It really didn't need intricate preparations, did it?

Maybe he'd decided to get out of there, favoring the 'flee' side of his 'flight or inferno' response. God, she hated the kooky ones. But, Merri supposed, anyone capable of murder, any sort of murder, wasn't quite right in the head. Granted, she'd seen a few accidental-deaths-turned-manslaughter because the perpetrator had panicked. But even then, it was because they'd briefly lost their mind.

So if she were a crazy firebug who'd been murdering Navy personnel, worked in a factory making 'Pixie Cakes', and was being hunted by federal agents... what would she do?

Merri sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, immediately tore them away, the fumes of cleaning fluid making her dizzy, and took a few breaths to steady herself and calm her frustration.

The profiling portion of her interrogation skills was failing her entirely. Logically, she should just give up and call it a day. Maybe he'd done the same. And they could try to track the bastard down later. Once LaSalle was back on his feet and they regrouped, they could find him, right? Even if he ran. Except... Except, she was standing in the middle of a giant pool of chemicals.

He'd meant to burn the place down when he soaked the floorboard in some generic form of industrial cleaner. His intentions likely hadn't changed, since the building had been evacuated and he probably was just as aware of her presence as she was his... that was, not at all.

Damn.

The whole neighborhood could burn.

Alright. Focus. She'd been through the loading dock. She'd been through the main floor with the giant mixing vats that filled the rows and rows of baking tins that went down the line to the... oven, theoretically. She hadn't checked in there yet, had she?

Merri made her way back through the big room that they'd apparently gutted an entire three story townhouse for the installation of the bakery production line. She led with her Glock, feeling more at ease for taking action, but not quite as at ease as when she had one of the boys covering her back.

She headed towards the room with the large warning signs that indicated it housed the factory's industrial ovens. And that unless you strictly adhered to every safety guideline outlined in the small print, you were liable for burning your own face off. One was also likely to burn their face off it they just waltzed into a room that had been set ablaze, so Merri placed the back of one hand against the metal door, wondering if there was thermal lining on the other side that would obviate the precaution altogether.

Startled, she hastily pulled her hand away, before she realized that her hindbrain response had been to something other than the temperature of the door, which had in fact been cool to the touch. It had been a noise, loud, sharp, like a gunshot. But not a gunshot. More like an explosion. But not the bomb kind. Well, at least she didn't think it had been a bomb. It was difficult to tell over the high-pitched klaxon damaging her ears and adding an extra buzzing in her head.

She instinctively started once more, however, as the second explosive noise somehow cut through the blare of the fire alarm. And then counter-intuitively (for the majority of the rational human population, anyway), the federal agent quickly made her way towards the source of the perplexing, disturbing noise that could be only being made by the firebug.

Another loud crack. Definitely something exploding, but more like a down pillow hitting someone in the side of the head, blowing out a seam and a plume of small white feathers. The door was more than a little ajar as she approached what she soon discovered had been the storage room for the baking supplies. And it was a large room, because, well, this _was _a factory that's sole product was baked goods.

She put her back to the wall next to the door, peeked around into what resembled a Northern Michigan white-out. A brief bout of homesickness flitted through her and was promptly squashed as she realized it was flour filling the air. And in the middle of the storm was her suspect, gleefully picking up the twenty pound bags of flour and smacking them against the support column in the middle of the room, looking so much like her grandmother beating out the rugs on the front porch and again striking her with a bout of homesickness.

"Rene Grant!" she called out the suspect's name, making herself her over the perpetual squeal of the alarms as she quickly entered the room, Glock pointed at what appeared to be his head. Even with years of long, blizzard-filled winters under her belt, she could only make out the barest silhouette in the fog of flour. It stung her eyes and burned the inside of her nose, her lungs. She hastily covered her mouth, even as the deranged anarchist turned to her, something flashing in the obfuscating white cloud.

"Drop the lighter," she said, instinctively sensing the danger even though her brain was momentarily puzzled by the lack of any accelerants in the room. That was, until she remembered that ridiculous fact she'd heard before.

Flour exploded. When aerosolized, it caught fire so quickly it was like a bomb going off. Something spectacular. Something a firebug would love to be his end... if he had to have an end.

She took a few steps closer, saw the crazed look in the man's eyes, saw the crooked grin.

"Care to burn with-"

She shot him three times center mass before he could finish his last maniacal words, diving after him, just to be sure, just in case, grabbing the arm holding the lighter as they both crashed to the ground, several bags of flour breaking their fall. It didn't soften the blow at all, for the baking staple was densely packed in its sacking. She had the wind knocked out of her, but she metaphorically sighed in relief even if she couldn't in reality, holding the vintage Zippo in her hand, flipping it shut, and panting, then coughing as her shocked lungs filled with flour dust.

Using a couple fingers at his carotid to confirm Grant was dead, the flour covering the floor and the man turning a rusty crimson as it absorbed the flow of blood, Merri decided it was best to get out of the room with its suffocating air. The flour seemed to be taking its time floating back down to settle on all the surfaces like ash spewed from a volcano.

And she rather not be one of those voids found in Pompeii, cowering, suffocating to death, buried and immortalized in volcanic ash -only, less dramatic, more ridiculous, flour.

Wheezing, she limped through the factory and out into the comparatively clean, fresh New Orleans city-swamp air. (She'd never get used to the underlying scent of the place, more musty, decaying and damp than the subtle background woodsy aroma you got in the Northern Midwest.) It was sweet and clear compared to that flour-dense smog she'd been breathing in.

Her lungs ached. And so did her side where she'd at the very least bruised flesh, if not ribs. But she could hear sirens in the distance, and her brained partner seemed to have come around, getting petted and fawned over with even greater enthusiasm as he grinned at the group of concerned factory workers surrounding him. Most of them women.

Figured.

She'd done the hard work. All he'd done was taken a blow to that thick skull of his.

* * *

She was glad LaSalle seemed to be okay and on his feet. He was doubtless doomed to suffer at least a CT scan, however.

He was looking quite admonished, and rather on the pathetic side, despite joking about her having to pull his fat out of the fire. There still was blood crusted about his hairline and on parts of his ear. He was holding a large medical bandage against the side of his head, where he just might have suffered a skull fracture.

But the paramedics had cleaned him up pretty well, while simultaneously putting an oxygen mask over Merri's face and placing a rather cold stethoscope to her chest to listen to her lungs. Both of them were about to be hauled off to the hospital, which might be a good thing, given the sorry state of the pair of them.

"Pride's gonna tear us a new one," he said.

"Not us," Merri said. "_Me. _It was my call to go after Grant without back up, and leave you behind even though you were injured. It was stupid and I failed to follow protocol. I deserve whatever lecture or black mark in my file I get."

LaSalle frowned.

"Brody, ya didn't do wrong," he said that, staring at her with blue eyes that were relievedly clear and focused. Couldn't be that bad of a head injury then, especially since the paramedics were only being moderately pushy about getting them to the hospital. Chris had told them they couldn't leave until their senior agent arrived on the scene. Not exactly true, but it did the trick of putting off their getting further poked and prodded for a few minutes.

"Yer a goddang hero, is what ya are."

He grinned at her again, making her smile, laugh a little and begin to cough. It was enough to draw the attention of the paramedic who had been tending to the minor wounds incurred by employees in the mild panic that the agents had inadvertently caused.

"That's enough," he said, wiping at the sweat on his forehead with the bare skin of the back of his wrist. "We're taking you to the ER to get checked out now."

"But-" Brody tried to protest, but they were already loading her gurney into the back of the ambulance.

"I'll stay until Pride gets here," LaSalle called out to her, looking disturbingly worried. She, too, was feeling a little bit alarmed by the EMTs sudden insistence about getting her to the hospital.

"How bad is it?" she asked, fighting with the female paramedic to pull the oxygen mask off for a moment. She gave her a half-hearted smile.

"It's not likely to be a problem," she said. "We just want to make sure there's no damage to your lungs."

Oh, great. She had to go and play hero. And now she probably had Pixie Cake lung. How embarrassing would that be? Dying of Pixie Cake Lung. Or even if she just developed asthma from it...

That was it. This was _the_ last time she was going off-protocol. And this time, she meant it!

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the slightly vague ending as to Merri's health. But I didn't want to take this any farther than the scene of the action/crime, like with the others. Hopefully the humor implies that she'll be fine?**


End file.
